"Spy in Chancery" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

THREE

The day after Corbett's visit to Notre Dame, the English envoys had sufficiendy recovered from the ordeal at sea to begin their journey, following the coast down to the Somme before turning south to Paris. They had brought their own horses and baggage across, a cumbersome trail of animals carrying supplies for my lords the Earls of Richmond and Lancaster, not to mention the clerks, scribes, cooks, cursors, bailiffs, priests and doctors. There was no obvious distinction in degree or status, the biting cold weather and shrill, sharp winds ensured everyone was wrapped in thick brown cloaks.

Now there was the usual chaos outside the small monastery they had lodged in after leaving the port, horses were saddled, two needed a farrier, one was lame, another had sores on its back; girths, bridles and stirrups were checked, broken or damaged ones repaired before clothing, manuscripts and other baggage were loaded noisily on to them alongside provisions purchased at exorbitant prices from sly-eyed merchants. The calm of the monastery courtyard was shattered by cries, shouted orders, curses and the angry neighs of nervous, highly-strung horses. A number of mongrels wandered in to share and spread the confusion, only to be chased away by an irate, stick-wielding lay brother.

Corbett sat on a ruined bench in the corner of the courtyard and morosely watched the chaos. The shouts and curses would have drowned the cries of the damned in hell; Corbett stared up at the huge tympanum carved above the monastery church door where, etched eternally in stone, the damned hanged by their bellies from trees of fire while more smothered in furnaces, their hands across their mouths, their stone eyes staring through plumes of smoke; Christ in judgement held the saved in his hands while the wicked were swallowed by monstrous fish, some gnawed by demons, tormented by serpents, fire, ice or tormented by fruits forever hanging out of reach of their starving maws. Corbett morosely concluded such terrors were nothing compared to the experience of being sent across the channel in freezing winter on an English embassy to France.

'Master Corbett,' the clerk groaned and got up as his servant, Ranulf, shoved his way through the crowded courtyard, the man's red hair glowing like a beacon above his white, anxious face. Corbett had saved Ranulf from the gallows some ten years before, now he was the clerk's faithful steward and companion, at least superficially, for Corbett knew Ranulf atte Newgate had a powerful interest in bettering himself at the expense of everyone else, Corbett included. Ranulf could lie, cheat and betray with a skill which constantly astonished and amused the clerk while Ranulf's pursuit of other men's wives would, Corbett privately maintained, bring his servant to a violent and sudden end.

Now, Ranulf was acting the role of the agitated, concerned servant, slyly hoping he could disturb his secretive, solemn master.

'It's Blaskett!' Ranulf said breathlessly. 'He says we are ready to leave soon and asks if your baggage is packed and loaded?' Blaskett was the pompous, arrogant peacock of a steward in the Earl of Lancaster's household. A man who loved authority and all its show like other men loved gold.

'Is our baggage loaded, Ranulf?' Corbett asked.

'Yes.'

'And are we ready to leave?'

'Yes.'

'Then why not tell my lord Blaskett!' Ranulf stared like a man who had just received a great secret, nodded and, turning on his heel, bustled back into the monastery to continue his malicious baiting of the pigeon-breasted Blaskett.

The English embassy departed just as the monastery bells were booming out for Terce; the French escort were waiting for them outside the monastery gate, a pursuivant of Philip's court, resplendent in scarlet and black, three nondescript clerks and two knights in half-armour, their sleeveless jerkins covering breastplates displaying the blue and gold of the royal French household. They were accompanied by a number of mounted men-at-arms, rough looking veterans, wearing boiled leather jerkins, steel breastplates and thick woollen serge leggings pushed into stout riding-boots. Corbett watched Lancaster and Richmond talk to the knights, documents were exchanged and, with the mounted escort strung out on either side of them, the English embassy continued its journey.

The Normandy countryside was flat, brown and still in the mailed fist of winter. Some hardy peasants, their russet cloaks belted around them, felt hats pulled over their eyes, attempted to break the ground for sowing: behind them, their families, women, even small children worked scattering marle, lime or manure to fertilise the soil. To Corbett, who had witnessed the ravages of war on the marcher counties during King Edward's Welsh wars, the land seemed prosperous enough. Nevertheless, he remembered the saying of Jacques of Vitry, 'what the peasant gains by stubborn work in a year, the lord will devour in an hour'. Justice was harsh, the lords of the manor in their walled, moated homes of wood and stone, exercised more justice than they did in England and every crossroad had its scaffold or stocks.

The villages were a collection of cottages, each with a small garden surrounded by a hedge and shallow ditch but Corbett was particularly struck by the number of towns, some old but others only in existence for decades; each was walled, the houses clustered around an abbey, cathedral or church. Sometimes the English stayed in one of these places, such as Noyon and Beauvis, where there was a welcoming priory or tavern spacious enough to host them. On other occasions, a variety of manors, royal or otherwise, were compelled to accept them. The French knights would flaunt their warrants, demanding purveyance which obliged the hapless lord or steward to feed the envoys and their entourage. Nevertheless, despite such hospitality, Corbett and his colleagues were left well alone by their French escort who treated them in a sullen, off-hand manner. On reflection, Corbett was not surprised, a state of armed truce existed between France and England with every indication that both countries might soon slip into war.

Corbett soon tired of the endless, daily tasks and problems of travelling though men like Blaskett thrived on them. The little things, the chatter, the gossip, who sat where, who was due what monies, it sounded glorious to be sent on an embassy to France: Corbett knew many of his colleagues would seize and enhance such an opportunity, forgetting the sores on their arses and thighs from constant riding, the rat-infested hostels, the rancid meat and sour wine which turned their bowels to water and the journey into a nightmare. The company of the great was no consolation, Lancaster was mean, sour-mouthed and taciturn: Brittany was conscious of his own importance, was eager to forget his recent military expedition to Gascony which had made him the laughing stock of the English court. The clerk, Waterton, seemed an amiable fellow, but he kept to himself except where women were concerned, almost rivalling Ranulf in sexual prowess. Corbett often heard the sounds of revelry at night, the slap of hand on some wench's soft bottom, the giggles, screams and cries of lovemaking.

At the same time, beneath the banality of this tedious journey, Corbett felt there was distrust and tension. Once they left Boulogne, Corbett lost his sense of being watched but he did experience the lack of trust betwen the leaders of the English embassy. King Edward had told Corbett that Lancaster, Brittany and Waterton, as well as the young, taciturn Henry Eastry, a monk of Canterbury and notary to Archbishop Winchelsea, were all privy to the secret business to Edward's council, anyone of them could be the traitor betraying information and English lives to the French.

Corbett quietly watched Eastry, Waterton and the two earls, but they did nothing unusual, regarding the French with the same studied dislike as the rest of the entourage. None of them had any contact more than they should have with their escort or made any effort, even secretly, to communicate with any French official in the towns they passed through.

It took two weeks to reach the outskirts of Paris after the most banal and boring journey in Corbett's life. The clerk felt stifled by the grinding routine but, looking back, realised that made it the ideal time for an ambush. They were on the Beauvais road, a broad, rutted track which swept into Paris, bordered by thick clumps of trees when the attackers struck; dressed in black, red hoods over their faces, they thundered from the trees and swooped down on the English party. The French escort turned, their leaders drawing swords and crying out orders just as the assailants crashed into them.

Corbett, grasping his long dagger, lashed out furiously, turning his horse, terrified lest one of the attackers got behind him for a quick, easy slash to the back of his neck. He sensed he was in the thick of the fight, frightened by the terrifying horsemen pushing through towards him and wondered why the assailants had chosen this point of the column and not its head where Lancaster and Richmond rode, or the rear where the baggage carts carried possible plunder. A figure loomed up before him, cloak flapping, eyes glistening with malice through the eye-holes of the hood, arm raised to drive the mace down for the killing blow. Corbett threw himself along his horse's neck, lunging with his dagger at his assailant's exposed belly, but the man wore hard armour beneath his cloak. Corbett felt the blade jar and a streak of pain ran up his arm. Nevertheless, the blow forced his opponent to drop his club and turn away clutching his stomach.

Corbett, the sweat now soaking his body, whirled in terror, he was surrounded by attackers though the rest of the English entourage were beginning to assert themselves and Corbett could see the French escort, rather dilatory at first, were making their presence felt. There were screams, curses, men fell, choking in the saddle, blood pumping from open wounds; axes, daggers and clubs whirled and Corbett heard the chilling whine of a jagged crossbow bolt. Ranulf came up beside him, blood streaming from a cut on his face, eyes staring madly, a white froth on his lips. He screamed soundlessly but Corbett ignored him as he glanced wildly around, eyes darting, looking to see if the crossbow man was friendly or hostile. Then, as sudden as their attack came, the assailants drew off, thundering back across the field in a cloud of dust.

Corbett sat, slumped over his horse, fighting back the nausea which threatened to disgrace him. He stopped the sobbing in his throat and looked around; there were bodies sprawled on the road, men screaming and cursing at the rawness of their wounds. The long column was now broken: two horses lay dead, another kicked in its traces, blood streaming from its throat. Gradually order was restored. There were a number of dead, two soldiers, a scullion in the Duke of Richmond's household and one of the attackers. Corbett watched Lancaster and Richmond scream aloud about 'Outlaws, so near to Paris,' ' Lack of protection,' but the knights shrugged and, shoulders raised, deprecatingly asked if there were no oudaws in England?

Lancaster intervened and called a meeting of his colleagues, Richmond, Waterton, Eastry and Corbett. They watched from the road while the Serjeants and stewards resorted order, the physician tended wounds while the French knights went off to commandeer a cart to take the dead and seriously wounded to a nearby manor. Richmond looked flushed, keen to brag about his own sword play, Waterton looked nervous, unmarked, not even a stain or cut, Eastry was sorrowful but coldy detached, eager to get back and give solace to the wounded, Lancaster looked furious, his white face mottled with anger.

'Of course,' the earl began, 'I will personally protest at this attack to Philip IV. What we have to decide,' he patted his horse's neck and looked round the group, 'is whether it was an outlaw assault or a carefully planned attack. I think it was the latter.' A murmur of agreement broke out so Lancaster pressed his point.

'If so,' his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, 'the traitor must be amongst us.'

'Why?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'I mean, my Lord, our route was planned in England and, due to the noise our cavalcade makes, half of Normandy must be aware of us.'

Lancaster's eyes slid back to the quiet, reserved clerk. He did not like Corbett, too guarded, the earl thought, too sure of himself. Corbett saw the flicker of dislike in Lancaster's eyes and stifled further questions. The English clerk did not agree with the earl's conclusion, the traitor may well be amongst them but wild, vague accusations would make everyone guarded, cautious and so make discovery of the truth all the more difficult. The earl himself realised this.

'I think,' he continued, 'the traitor is with us, but when we arrive in Paris, we will contact Simon Fauvel, one of the King's agents there. He may have heard some chatter or gossip which could shed some light on these mysteries.'

The group then returned to the now organised column and recommenced its slow journey into the outer suburbs of Paris. Corbett took his place, telling an anxious Ranulf that he was well, safe and unwounded and would appreciate it if his servant shut his mouth and left him alone. Ranulf drew back, muttering angrily while Corbett mulled over the attack. He had heard one of the French escort shout that those assailants who had been killed could not be identified, they carried no documents nor wore any emblem or device. Corbett expected that: the attack was planned but what really worried him was why the brunt of the attack seemed to be aimed at him. Why, he wondered, did someone believe he was so dangerous that he should be singled out for such a dangerous attack? Who in England had passed such information to the French? Corbett pulled his cloak around him, he felt cold, more from fear than the chill, biting wind.

The fierce biting wind made the horsemen huddle closer to their mounts as they tried to get protection against the cold gusts whistling through the ruined windows and crumbling walls of the ancient church. Their leader, a Breton mercenary, cursed and stamped his feet on the ground in an attempt to recover some warmth. He was also angry at the failure of his attack and did not relish the coming meeting with Monsieur de Craon, Philip IV's chief clerk and master spy, who was now picking his way across the ruins to meet him. To the Breton's superstitious mind the French clerk, small and dark, in his thick black woollen cloak seemed a fiend out of hell. The Breton was usually afraid of no man but Monsier de Craon exuded power as a woman did perfume and did not understand failure or opposition.

De Craon pulled back the cowl of his cloak and went close up to the Breton totally ignoring the mercenary's vast bulk towering above him.

'You launched the attack?' the clerk's voice was soft and polite.

'Yes, we did.'

'And you killed the man?'

The Breton shook his head. 'No, we did not,' he replied and stepped back at the sudden look of hatred in de Craon's eyes. De Craon seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper. He spun on his heel and walked a few paces away before coming back, the only sign of his anger being the constant biting of his lower lip. He brought six bags of gold from beneath his robe.

'These,' he rasped, 'would have been yours if the man had been killed.' De Craon took one of the bags between his finger and thumb, stared coolly at the Breton and dropped the bag at the soldier's feet. 'But you failed and so you only get one.' De Craon strode away, beneath his robe he clenched the bags of gold coins tightly so they bit into his hands but the Frenchman ignored the pain. He had wanted Corbett dead. He hated the man for being what he was as well as what he might do. De Craon stopped for a while and stared around the ruined chancel of the church he had met the assassins in, then he smiled, there would be other occasions to settle past debts with Monsieur Corbett.